Honey from the Lion
by Saturnine Spiders
Summary: When Harry Potter came into his taxidermy workshop, drenched, and holding a dead dog, Draco thought of it as nothing but another job to do. He didn't think the florist next door would be dead set on getting them together. Muggle!AU
1. Mantis

**Title:** Honey from the Lion

 **Beta(s):** SassenachStarbuck and Verity Grahams

 **A/N:** This is a _muggle AU_ ; there will be heavy amounts of taxidermy, the Drarry will be slow-burn, James and Lily Potter are alive, and everything else will be explained later on; thank you!

* * *

 _June 3rd, 2008_

My father had first inaugurated me into the unpalatable art of taxidermy when my Chinchilla, Mantis, drowned in his water bowl. I had been distraught by his insouciance as he forced me to watch him decorticate and skin him free of his pelage, mould his flesh against wood wool, and disregard his body to the wolves when he finally got the mould he approved of. Mantis was set to rest on my bedside table, forever in an eternal sleep.

Yet, it had been strange, the ballooning compulsion to watch my Father dissect woodland voles and possums, shoot down magpies, and construct taxidermy animals. I found myself beguiled by the craft of arranging skin, giving the dead the gift of uncanny, faux beauty. It wasn't long before I decided to seek out taxidermy schools and as my profession began, be esteemed as one of the youngest pet taxidermists.

Working with lamented pets was a dreary process, the owners mostly in melancholy, saturnine blues, wanting their once friend to be just as they were before. Some would gripe about the expensive price, some are nettled by the extensive wait that could last for days on end, and others are nescient of the putrefaction cycle. But what kept me from inquiring the prospect of better pay was the lachrymose pulchritude of the mounts. Animals that were pushing up daisies were given the chance to be a stagnant atrocity with zoetic eyes, a form of honour that people are keen to avoid.

The diurnal course of my days was dedicated to stuffing mounts and skinning the pelts from cherished pets, noting the anatomical structures and key feature placements, washing grotty skin, and airbrushing the finer details on a creature's coat. It was rather pathetic to be so deeply enamoured with your work, hone in on every single detail, remain lethargic even through three cups of muddy brew. But, I enjoyed the fatigue, the ambition to toil to eminence, no matter how many sacrifices I made. I was to be what my Father had become.

I had been called on Wednesday by a client whose golden retriever was to be put down that day. His voice was deep but narcoleptic, the benumbed lift of his tongue slurred in his cough syrup stupor. He was asking me what he must do to hinder the inevitable decomposition of his flaxen friend and when I answered, he laughed a sober man's laugh. And if I wasn't the one with mammals in his fridge, I would have joined him.

The package he carried as he walked into my studio was bigger than his and my torso combined, a rain jacket secured around his waist, his denim button-up matched with a pair of ashen-coloured jeans. I wouldn't say he was attractive, but he wasn't unsightly either. He was fair to middling, vanilla, the pencil I'd consign to oblivion. He was my client, and I respected that.

Dark, jet-black hair was matted to his forehead, glasses dotted with liquid sunshine, the faint green colour of his eyes barely recognizable. He smiled hesitantly, stumbling over the birdlime cement floor, admiring the mounts on the alabaster wall. It's then I recognized him. "Oh," I didn't bother catching his eye, lowering my head to peruse the registered appointments, "If it isn't Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Saves."

"The one," he placed his packaged, dead dog on the counter, and I grimaced as he clutched the paper with his spindly digits, "and only."

"Do you usually ask your customers to put their dead animals in their fridge, Malfoy?" He tore at the paper with a caustic chuckle, the canine's golden tail spilt over the counter, and Potter ran his fingers through the xanthous fur as it swung back and forth. "My roommate's girlfriend went up in hysterics about how unhygienic it is, no thanks to you, I assume."

"You asked me what you needed to do, and I told you. Don't blame me, Potter." His eyes narrowed, and I quirked a snide smile towards his general direction. "Anyway," I started, taking the retriever into my gloved hands, "Does the dog have a name?"

Potter crooned, it was a sweet sound. "If I had my way, he would have been named Fido, but he only responded to Jake."

"Fido? What a stupid name. Of course, you'd think that is a good name, wouldn't you, Potter?" The canine's pelt was smooth and pristine; it reminded me of Mantis. "What kind of position would you prefer him to be in?"

"He usually slept, so, probably sleeping," he answered after a short moment, his emerald eyes never leaving mine. I shuddered as my fingertips graze the hand that had yet to leave the amber weald, the glove doing nought to mask his satin skin.

I sucked in a deep breath and pulled my arms to my stomach; I was warm. "Whatever, Potter. How long had you had him?"

"Not long, he was abandoned by his previous owners, but I loved him despite only having him for a few weeks." He looked at the ferret mount on the counter, "Of course, Malfoy. Your fetish for ferrets never did end in Hogwarts, did it?"

I snarled. "Still can't go one day without saving someone can you, Potter?"

"At least I never had a ferret down my pants," he retorted venomously, and I glowered at him. It had been years since I had thought about him, but I detested him just the same as I did the night of graduation, the same day he instigated the ingenious idea to shove a ferret down my slacks.

"It's a client's pet, Potter. I don't have a fetish."

"You sure enjoyed it clawing at your crotch," Potter smirked, and rested his elbows on the glass counter, "You were screaming the whole time."

I shoved him off the counter, and he smacked his jaw with his thumb. I pointed to the red sign next to me, "Do not rest on the glass, Potter."

I grabbed the retriever and started to the backroom. I could feel Potter's breathy laugh on the back of my neck even as I was behind the wall, "you didn't deny that you enjoyed it, Malfoy!"

"I will contact you as soon as he's mounted, Potter!" I said as I pulled on a new pair of rubber gloves.

"Don't you ignore me, Malfoy!" he yelled.

I didn't answer.


	2. Jake

**Title:** Honey from the Lion

 **Beta:** Verity Graham

* * *

 _June 3, 2008_

Jake was a beautiful canine; I had to admit to myself. He had watery blue eyes, though I knew that indicated a genetic disorder, they were pleasant to stare into, friendly even. Father had never liked the eyes of the lamented; it had disturbed him, disgusted him. Mantis did not have eyes; Father had scratched them out with his thumb and left me to stare at buttons that shined no brighter than a copper penny. Glass eyes were meant to capture the essence of life your friend once had, but Father looked at buttons and beads and believed them to do just the same.

Mantis wasn't a pet; he was a friend, my only friend. I had surrounded myself with people who couldn't tell right from left at Hogwarts; it had aroused a scorching excitement within me, then. I was a _Malfoy_ ; I was my father's showpiece, I was an image. I wore pelts and animal print; I flaunted my father's wealth, I was perfect. But, I grew up, and I had found myself swallowed by bitter reality. Father no longer protected me; I was on my own, and I had no idea what loneliness truly was. Father had been right; I was pathetic.

Jake's flesh was a salmon's sanguine ichor, and his eyes were their drowned tears. He was thin, but he had been healthy, his flaxen pelt was the shade of cursed dandelions. I carved his wet snout the hue of a fawn's coat and shaped his paws in critter clay. I drenched his flaxen strands in frothy residue and watched as his pelt webbed across the slate counter. He reminded me of Mantis, but so did every other animal I skinned; I left his golden jacket to dry.

I locked up and walked through the melancholic monsoon, watching the sewage drains consume litres of the murky deluge. I remembered my first thunderstorm when the fulmination had been harsh against the bittersweet howls of the wind, and I sobbed into my satin sheets. I was young, and I was scared. My father was asleep in the bedroom next door, but I was more scared of him than I was of the melodic crashes of thunder. Mother was dead, and I stared at her marble grave from my sombre lucarne. She would have held me as my eyes stained an unsightly red, and she would have stayed with me as I screamed my sins into satin pillows. She would have loved me, and I would have loved her back.

I was cold and drenched when I reached my apartment; the door was jarred open, and I knew my roommate was inside. She was laid across the couch; drool draped across her chapped lips, an empty beer bottle in her sprawled hand. I smiled at her knotted mane and stalked my way to my bedroom, dancing around thrown beer bottles and candy wrappers. I had opened the door when I heard her shift, and the crinkle of loose wrappers sounded underneath her weight.

"Dra-co, darling!" she yawned, and I groaned into my palm. "You would not believe what happened today!"

"Oh, _please_ ," I sneered and walked behind the couch. "Do tell, I must know."

"Well, Daphne — you know, Greengrass? She was on the news; apparently, her house burned down. But, that's not the point, she's married to Blaise Zabini, of all people. She hitched my ex-husband. What a whor—" I smacked her head, and she frowned at me.

"Have some empathy; her house burned down. And, Pansy, clean this up. I have no time for your petty excuses today."

"What got your panties in a twist? And I'm not petty, unlike you," she retorted, sitting up. She picked at a melted Malteser on her wrist, and I watched as she struggled to rub the excess chocolate into her skin.

"Did you even try to find a job, Pansy?" I leaned against the couches frame, "You aren't going to find another husband like that, you know."

She simpered, glaring at me. "Why would I need to find a husband when I have one right here? He works, he cleans, and he buys me stuff. What more could I want?"

I leaned forward, my breath intermingling with hers, and she froze, her dark eyes scrambling. "A job."

Pansy pulled back, offended, and I laughed as she shifted closer to the crease in the couch. "Like I would want you, anyway, you would probably try to skin me before we could even snog."

"And you would taste of beer, what's new?"

"At least I still have my beer," she lifted the empty bottle to her lips and took a swig, her brows lowering as only a few drops lolled across her chin. "Oh, no, what? Where'd it go?"

"You're pathetic, Parkinson."

She shrugged and stood up, kicking aside the bottles at her feet. "Not as pathetic as you, ferret-boy."

I turned away from her and walked into my room, slamming the door behind me. "Goodnight, Pansy!" I spat.

I heard her chuckle from outside the door, "Night, Draco."

* * *

 _June 4, 2008_

"So, Draco. I was thinking we co—"

I waved my hand and took a sausage from her plate. "No, Pansy. I don't have the time."

"You didn't even hear what I was going to say!"

"I don't have to," I poked at my eggs and watched, disgusted, as the raw yolk quivered underneath the plastic fork. "You were going to ask me to attend your cooking class with you. It doesn't look like it's doing you any good, anyway."

Pansy huffed, "No. I was going to ask if we could — um, that we could — go out to eat."

"Pansy."

She looked at me, "What?"

"You hate eating out; last time we went out, you accused the waitress of poisoning your food."

"She kept eyeing me weirdly!"

I stacked our plates and tossed them in the waste bin. "It's called checking you out, Pansy."

"How would you know that?" she countered, and I grabbed my coat from the rack, opening the front door. "I was sick for a week!"

"Because I was the one who poisoned you, pug-face." She screamed as I closed the door.

It was cold, but the lady with the corkscrew necklace didn't seem to care. She was watering the dianthus asters, a dreamy smile on her blue lips, and I stared at her. She hummed a sweet melody to her flowers, caressing their glass petals, it was what she did every morning, but she turned to me. The corner of my lips twitched, "Lovegood."

"Draco," she was in front of me, but she sounded lost. "Your heart seems to have been misplaced. Have the Nargles taken it? Such crafty creatures they are, it's worrisome."

I blinked, muddled by her rapt steel-blue eyes. "Nargles — what do you— my heart?"

"Yes," she said as if I was a child. "Your heart seems to have been stolen. Does it hurt?"

"No, it doesn't hurt," I sneered. "Are you trying to tell me I'm in love, Lovegood?"

Lovegood only smiled, cutting an aster from its stem. "Give this to Harry for me," she placed the blossom in my palm, "please."

I narrowed my eyes at the flower; it was kissed in drops of dew. "Alright."

I was about to close the door to my workshop when I heard her dreamy voice call from outside. "And, Draco, it's Luna. We're friends, aren't we?"

I stared at the aster, twirling it between my fingertips, mesmerised by its bittersweet wings. I placed it in a pail of water and watched as it swayed alone, a crimson sail in the sea. Hogwarts had been encompassed by wildflowers and wilted ferns, the topiary whistling a saturnine melody as students stalked through its dreary branches. I remembered the forest games, the horrors of the Whomping Willow, and the lake that bleeds the blood of stags. The asters and moss that decorated the mildew walls and the echoed screams of a blonde in blue and bronze caked in lemon juice. I wasn't cool, and I wasn't a friend. I was a fool.

Lovegood wanted me to give the blossom to Harry Potter, the boy who denied my friendship, the boy who let me bleed out on to ceramic tile, and the man who trusted me to bring Jake to his former opulence. Potter was difficult, he would disregard my ghosting presence one day, but the next he was pulling at the strings of my loose sanity. He was friends with the scholarship-bound Granger and galling Weasley, and I was friends with Thing One and Thing Two. I was trapped, and he was free. I hated him, and he hated me.

"Draco."

I looked up from my musing and locked eyes with orbs of indigo. "Lovego— Luna, what do you need?"

She looked at the flower in the bucket and kneeled in front of it, brushing her fingertips against the water's surface. "You were staring at the wall, have the Wrackspurts clouded your mind?"

"What the hell are Wrackspurts?"

"They feed off of your insecurities, Draco, your head is full of them."

I scowled, but I aimed it more at my reflection in the windows. "I'm not insecure and stop coming up with these stupid creatures; you're an adult, act like one."

"I'm not coming up with them, Draco, they are all around us. You may not be able to see them, but that doesn't make them make-believe." She untied her necklace and placed it on the counter. "It's a charm."

I stared at it. "Okay, and?"

"It keeps the Wrackspurts away. You no longer have to be plagued by your bitter thoughts."

I traced the blue yarn. "Wrackspurts don't exist," I said, defeated.

She squeezed my hand, and I shuddered as her eyes bore into my acerbic soul. "You don't have to lie, Draco."

* * *

 _June 4, 2008_

I stared into the watery glass eyes, weaving the thin needle through golden tresses. Jake was tired, and his eyes were drifting to a close, his fur webbed around him in a golden crown. I admired him as I worked, airbrushing his decayed ears and clipping off mats in his mane. He was an image of stagnant pulchritude; the aster bound between his paws.

He was dead, but perhaps, when he was alive, he had rolled in yellow and purple daisies. He had tasted the salt of the sea and the bone of a lamb. He had felt pain and seen his blood paint the wilted grass, and he had felt loved and had been touched by warm hands. The charm was on the counter, next to Jake, and I held it up to the twitching lights. I tossed it in my pocket.

Potter smiled as he entered, eyes of poison locked on the white cloth covering Jake. "Is this him, Malfoy?"

"Yes, are you ready to see him?"

He rolled his eyes, "Give me the grand reveal."

I pulled off the cloth, and Potter gasped, tears springing to the corner of his eyes as he took in what he saw. "I'm impressed," he wiped at the tears with his sleeve. "Who knew I would ever say that to you of all people. I thought you were going to bloody ruin him, but Merlin, Malfoy. You did an amazing job."

I mocked a bow and smirked. "Trying to charm me, Potter?"

He stammered and fingered the aster's petals, "Seems like you're the one trying to charm me, Malfoy."

"What— no, no. Luna Lovegood asked me to give it to you."

He raised an eyebrow and looked me up and down. "Sure, Malfoy. Plus, you're not my type."

"Not your type?" I asked and pulled his collar down to my lips. "Are you sure, Potter? Am I not pretty enough for you?"

He pushed me off of him, and I stumbled into the wall behind me. "Get the hell off me," he wiped his lips despite mine never touching his. He threw the check on the counter and gathered Jake into his arms. "I hope I never have to see you again, Malfoy."


	3. Dobby

**Title:** Honey from the Lion

 **Beta:** Verity Grahams (though she didn't beta this chapter...)

 **A/N:** At some point during this chapter it will switch from Draco's point of view to Harry's (third person). I won't be doing this often, but every once in a while I will switch point of views. Also, please note that the dates are important! Thank you!

* * *

 _ **June 8, 2008**_

"What type of flower are these?"

The petite mauve posies lined the yellow brick; encompassed by clay pots and black bins, stout bees collecting their pollen and prismatic moths and butterflies lapping up liquid nectar. Luna was balancing a moth on her fingernail; an intangible smile settled on her teal lips. "Nepeta, beautiful, aren't they?" she said, placing the moth on a wilted bud, watching as it traipsed a solemn stride to blossomed brothers.

"Nepeta?" I swatted at a bee, scowling as it lingered by the hairs of my ear.

"Yes," she paused, pulling a thin green stem towards her. "It's a type of catmint."

"Why the hell would you plant catmint around your house?" I asked her, bemused.

Luna fingered the purple petals, _"If you set it, the cats will eat it, if you sow it, the cats don't know it."_

"Didn't know you were a poet," I commented dryly, rolling my eyes as a tabby matted in gravel licked at the posies. "You do know they might have rabies, right?"

She crouched next to the filthy cat and scratched it behind its ear. "Of course," she said, and I could see the bright yellow eyes of the cat between her spindly digits, "that is why I took them to be vaccinated."

"You took a bunch of worthless—" I broke off from my tangent and shook my head. "You know what? Nevermind, I would just regret saying it later."

Luna quirked a dreamy smile, lifting the tabby into the bitter ether as it gnashed its canines into her rose pruning gloves. "This is Neville; he's a brave, ferocious warrior. He hunts the mice in the fields."

The cat hissed, waving its claws at my head with copper paws. "Like Neville Longbottom?" I smirked, flicking the tabbies wet nose. "The one that almost peed himself whenever Professor Snape walked into the room?"

"The very same," she nodded, her strawberry earrings bobbing as she moved.

I crowed; my laugh garish. "You named him after that spineless coward? What a joke."

She looked at me, and I was taken back by the masked tears in her crepuscular eyes. "A spineless coward who died during combat, Draco."

I sucked in a breath. "Oh," I struggled to find the right words; I was a mess. "I didn't know; I swear! I thought he had left overseas to study, not... fight a war."

She laughed, the tabby falling and landing gracefully on its toes. "Oh, Draco," she said, her laughter the ringing of porcelain chimes, it was almost mocking. "He's not dead, but he is off at war, he's fishing for Freshwater Plimpies, you see."

I leered at her, sighing. Luna wasn't one to joke about life and death; I knew that. She would caress the empty terrain; lilies braided within her dirty-blonde mane, and call into the woods with a blessed kiss. I used to mock her, _Loony Lovegood,_ I would tease; _calling to your dead mother, has she answered yet or are you still on hold?_ I pulled at her braids and watched as the lilies fell into the muddy water below, but she wouldn't cry, she would reach into the mere and hold the lilies drenched with murky dew close to her heart.

Sometimes, I wished I fell in the water instead.

I was jaundiced of her, but it was never that simple. She could see the whites of her mother's eyes, and she could hear the adoration that bled through her every word. I was to stare at pretty pictures and count the seconds till I could taste the fragrance of my mother's sangria perfume. Luna wasn't perfect, she was flawed, and I had prided myself in finding the faults that fell loose on her shoulders. I hated Luna, and perhaps, deep within, I still did.

"You were once a coward, Draco."

I looked at her and shook my head. "No, Luna. I still am a coward."

Luna only smiled.

* * *

 _ **June 8, 2008**_

I stared into the white as porcelain cup, the tea was strong, and the spice stung my throat. It was noon, the sun settled on its throne of pine, and Luna was in the kitchen. Flour caked the underside of her nails, her knuckles rolling across the powdered dough. She hummed as she kneaded, her strawberry-patterned apron masked in a haze of white. I sat at the dining table, stirring liquid molasses, watching as the spoon vanished beneath the chocolate blanket.

Her house was small, with wilted sunflowers hung on watercolour canvases and beige cushions stitched with patterns of animals. The walls were painted with the hues of lily-white fauna and flora; the teeth of dragons and spots of mushrooms illustrated across empty corners. I smirked at the copious amounts of bookshelves that backs reached for the heavens, and wooden pegs touched the base of hell; she was a Ravenclaw, after all. It was nice to know that old habits never died in the saturnine castle that was our dreamless home.

Terracotta decorated the tops of kitchen shelves, the rufous earthenware coated in thin layers of acrylic paint, and the aroma was that of boiled cardamom. I stretched my legs, the last of the tea lolling across my tongue. Luna was working her hand at a mixing bowl, freshly cut peaches and raspberries by her side, and I smiled at the small pastry-lined pies crusts next to the apricot-coloured fruit. I pushed myself upright and walked to the kitchen, teacup in hand.

I placed the cup in the sink and turned on the tap, rinsing it. "Why did you invite me?"

She licked her lips, pouring the peaches and raspberries into her mixing bowl. "I like you," she said, sprinkling a pinch of cinnamon over the fruit. "You've changed, Draco. More than you like to think."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I retorted.

"The Blibbering Humdinger that had once followed you disappeared, it used to laugh at my earrings, you see."

"I — I _can't_ argue you on that, can I?"

She nodded sagely. "I don't believe it would get you anywhere."

"Probably not," I pushed the cup through the cracks of the dishwater, watching as she poured the mix into the pastry-liners. "Is this Peach Melba Pie?"

"I believe so. Harry Potter taught me, you see," she added vaguely, dusting oatmeal over the vanilla-lathered fruit. "His mother used to make it, and what a lovely lady she is."

"Potter can bake?" I mused, sceptical. "You sure it wasn't someone else disguised as him?"

Luna licked her frosted fingers; a pensive smile on cerulean lips. "He could have been, now that I think about it..."

"You'd think Potter's mum would have made everything for him. _Oh, my dear son!"_ I mocked, clasping my hands together. _"You're perfect, and everyone loves you! There's no need for you to ever learn such a maternal chore!"_

"Harry has changed as well, Draco."

I snorted. "Sure, and I used to be best friends with the mudblo— Granger."

"You gave the flower to him, yes?" she said, staring directly into my eyes.

"The wanker thought I was trying to charm him!" I pulled a face, scowling. "Can you believe that?"

Luna only smiled at that as she turned to the oven with the small pies in her hands. "Have you tried to have a civil conversation with him?"

"If death threats constitute as civil, sure."

"You dislike him," she mused, tugging at her strawberry earrings. "Why?"

"He's Harry _Potter,_ the Boy-Who-Saves!" I jeered venomously. "I bet he gloats to his little friends even now!"

"Is that all?"

"He's an arrogant Gryffindor!"

Luna smiled thoughtfully. "The Wrackspurts are clouding around your head again, Draco."

I shook my head, running my hands through my hair. "There," I said, calming myself. "They're all gone."

I tossed a raspberry into my mouth and savoured the bittersweet tang, closing my eyes. "You wouldn't happen to grow these yourself, would you?"

Luna rolled the rose-coloured fruit between her fingers, nodding. "They're perennial fruit; Dad used to tell me about how Mum loved perennials."

"She means a lot to you, doesn't she?" I asked wistfully.

Luna inclined her head, fingering the hem of her apron, as if embarrassed. "You love your mum just as much as I do mine."

I gulped, ashamed. "I — I'm sorry, Luna."

She looked at me with a contemplative eye. "What for?"

"You already know what!"

"I want to hear you say it, Draco."

I sighed. "I'm sorry for mocking you. I was foolish."

A smiled appeared across her blue lips. "Thank you."

I scowled and turned away from her. "You didn't hear it from me," I said, haughtily. "A Malfoy never apologises."

* * *

 _ **June 8, 2008**_

"Are you _sure_ Potter gave you this recipe?" I narrowed my eyes at her, dubious. The pie was lovely, the crust falling apart as my fork sunk into its fruity flesh. "There's no way he could've made something this good."

Luna glowed, lolling the pie around her mouth, a dab of vanilla on her cerulean lips. "Harry teaches culinary arts, you know. Ginny said he makes the best macaroni."

"You're joking," I deadpanned.

"Why would I be?" she said, taking a sip of her lemon water. "Ginny wouldn't lie to me about macaroni."

"That's not what I meant you guppy—" I paused, my mind catching up to what I said. "Anyway, about Potter teaching women's studies?"

Luna waved off the insult. "He graduated from _Tante Marie_ and now teaches his winters at _Cordon Bleu,_ did you know tante means a mature woman?" she added as an afterthought.

"What does he even teach? Whether the milk or cereal goes first?" I retorted.

"He's an excellent cook, Draco. Just as you are an excellent taxidermist," she said.

I huffed, pushing my empty plate to the side. "You didn't have to devalue my work, Luna."

Luna stared.

"So..." I started, clearing my throat. "I enjoyed the dessert. What else can the oh-so- _great_ Potter do? Tie his own shoelaces?"

I laughed, picking up both of our plates. "Or is that too much for even him?"

Luna smiled brightly. "He used to teach self-defence classes, but he grew tired of the strain it had on his mind."

"Suits him," I sneered. "With how many times he saved someone, you'd think someone would start a riot if he didn't teach his holy ways."

"Your shoelaces are untied."

"Touché."

* * *

 ** _June 4, 2008_**

Pinewoods encompassed Harry's car in a main of Castleton green, the entrails of a hart picked by turkey vultures and the bold red of a vermilion flycatcher gliding by. It was serenity. A narrow cobbled bridge crossed a thin stream and led out into the open city, power lines and tar snakes the only company to him and the highway amidst the Stygian afternoon. It was misty, the headlights of his vehicle casting a silhouette of cyan through the silvery haze, and Harry admired it with a hint of a smile. The mist danced with the harsh turbulent winds, fluid and graceful amongst virulent conditions.

Harry turned to the mount sat on his passenger's seat, threading his fingers through the flaxen pelt, a wisp of a frown etched on his lips. He was astonished by how velvety the coat was and how blue the scintillating glass eyes were, bringing a chimerical sense of warmth, it was _pleasant._ The topiaries boughs outside were laden with rosin, myriads of pine needles meandering across melanoid empyrean, the dulcet sanatorium hymn of a mellifluous flute playing through the calm of the car. Harry smiled in spite of his damask cheeks, mindlessly running his fingers through the mounts golden mane. He was being ridiculous, he knew that, but he had cried despite only knowing the canine for a few fortnights.

Harry recalled the night he found Jake. He was skeletal, his flesh hanging from brittle bones, ichor crusted around his wet snout. Jake was limping, dragging his leg behind him, oblivious to the shadows that stalked him. Harry had wanted to throw up; he wanted to end the mutt's doleful existence, it was the humane thing to do. But, Harry _couldn't._ Jake simply stared at him; a certain emptiness masked in his watery eyes, a certain desire for death, and he looked him dead in the eye. It scared Harry, and if there was a single coherent thought that had drifted through his mind, it was to save that dog.

A collar clung to his skin; dark contusions encompassing the tight leather strap, Harry could remember every word inscribed into the rusted medallion. _Dobby - If found call your local pound - If found dead dispose of the body._ It was sick, and Harry mulled over how merciless humans could be. He had been dubbed Dobby; a name that plagued Jake, and a name that made Harry nauseous. Jake cowered at the first syllable of his name, his matted fur rising with each shallow breath he took, and Harry had watched in morbid fascination as he kneeled over in a faint.

Jake refused to eat, pushing away the food with his snout, a snarl building in his throat. He whined to the drapes; scratched the furniture, and picked at the bloody scabs that littered his paws. Harry could only watch in pity as the dog was forced to endure another day, heal the scars that clung to his washed pelt, and learn of sweet voices and soft touches. It was a gruelling process, countless nights left tired, but Harry had been willing to try if only to see the canine live another day.

 _9:24 PM_

Harry sat in the car, his head in his hands, his eyes closed. It was settling in, the reality, the death, it wasn't a chimerical nightmare he illusioned. He was sitting next to a fragment of death; a piece of family, a stagnant friend. Harry stared at Jake; he was confused, he didn't understand why he was so severely attached to him. Jake was an _animal!_ He was detached, a canine that didn't comprehend what love was, and Harry treasured him despite only knowing his cowardly eyes.

The wind outside was cold, a drizzle forming, Harry's hand shaking as he shifted the mount under his arm, his cheeks singed a sanguine red. It was a short walk to his apartment, the crunch of dried bracken underfoot, the weight of guilt heavy on his shoulders. Ron smiled at him as he opened the door and entered, hanging his coat, it was a sad smile. He placed the mount on the coffee table, his keys dropping to the carpet, his knees shaking. Harry looked at Hermione; she was crying just as he was.

"He looks..." she hesitated, her lips trembling. "He looks amazing."

Ron nodded, running fingers through the mounts flaxen tail. "Who knew Malfoy could make something beautiful."

"Ron!" Hermione scolded, but Harry waved it off.

"I was surprised too," Harry said. "I half expected him to mess up, yet I entrusted Jake to him anyway..."

"Well, did you thank him?"

Ron snorted. "Yeah, right! Harry wouldn't thank Malfoy, not even if sheep could fly!"

"It's if pigs could fly, Ron," Hermione corrected, scowling.

"I kinda, uh..." Harry scratched his cheek, a habit he had picked up, embarrassed. "Stormed out on him?"

"Harry!"

"See, Mione!"

Harry shook his head. "I overreacted, it was stupid."

"What'd he do this time?" Ron accused, crossing his ankles.

"Nothing!" he retorted, rubbing at his damask cheeks.

"Well," Hermione interjected, her hands on her hips, "if it was nothing, then why can't you tell us?"

"Because it's none of your business!" he yelled.

Ron rolled his eyes. "As if, we're your best friend, of course it's our business."

"That doesn't give you access to everything I do!"

"Yeah, and who says that?"

Harry groaned. _"Me!"_

"Will you both shut up!" Hermione fumed, pushing herself upright, her thick hair flying. "There is no reason for this behaviour!"

"Yes, ma'am!" they both cried, cringing as she pulled at their ears.

"Bloody hell, Hermione..." Ron muttered, rubbing his ear, it was as red as his hair. "That hurt!"

"You both need to grow up! Malfoy has probably changed since we've last seen him," she said. "Tell him, Harry."

Harry shrugged, slouching into the crease of the couch. "Malfoy was the same exact git he's always been."

Ron smirked. _"A Malfoy never changes,"_ he mocked, sneering.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at Harry. "You did something to upset him, didn't you?"

"Hey! How do you know it wasn't _him_ upsetting _me!"_

"Harry," she deadpanned. "What did you do?"

"I just commented about his little ferret fetish, that's all!"

Ron choked on his laughter. "Blimey, I forgot about that! If _that_ wasn't the best moment of my life, I don't know what is."

Hermione glared at him; a frown etched on her lips. "He cried, Harry! Malfoy of all people cried because you were too immature to let bygones be bygones!"

"He cried?" he said in disbelief.

"You were too caught up in your mirth to even notice he left early, on his own _graduation_ day!"

"The git deserved it!" Ron yelled, balling his fist.

"No, Ron. Hermione is right; I went too far."

"Too far? He deserved it, Harry. You know that better than anyone!"

"Don't you get it, Ron!" Hermione admonished, her eyes ablaze. "You both ruined Malfoy's chance to reprimand for what he did. He was going to apologise!"

Ron rolled his eyes, snorting in derision. "How would you know that? It's not like you were any friendly to him either."

"I just —" she faltered, looking deep into the watery eyes of the mount. "I had a feeling."

"A feeling? Here I thought you didn't believe in divination, Hermione."

"I don't, but that doesn't mean I don't trust what my gut tells me!" she retorted. "Just admit you went too far!"

Ron turned to Harry, his eyes begging. Harry frowned at him, shaking his head. "Okay," he said. "Fine, I'm _sorry."_

"Thank you, Ron," Hermione said.

"Whatever..."

Hermione grinned, kissing his cheek. Ron blushed, turning his cheek to her, his face growing hot. Harry quirked a smile, turning his attention to the mount on the coffee table, admiring the tawny pelt, polished snout, clipped nails. Harry knelt, pressing his fingers to Jake's stagnant paws, the red of the aster catching his attention. It was radiant among the main of gold, encrusted with drops of dew from the rain; it was beautiful, Harry had to admit. He fingered the thin petals, a hint of a smile on his lips, and he untied the flower from Jake's paw.

He lifted the flower, tasting the airy aroma when a slip of paper fell from beneath the aster. It was soaked, pen bleeding across the small paper. The writing was cursive, but Harry could make it out.

 _I hope you liked the aster, Potter. Did you know that aster could mean a multitude of different things?_

 _Daintiness, Love, Elegance._

 _\- Malfoy_

"What the hell!" he yelled, discarding the paper, his hands flying to his heart. "This has to be a joke!"

Hermione grabbed the paper, her eyes widening with each word. "I didn't think he would do something like this!"

Ron was reading over her shoulder; his nostrils flared in disgust. "Of course! This whole time he was just pulling your pigtails, Harry!"

"Oh, come on! You don't actually believe _Malfoy_ would write something like this, would you?" he hissed.

"Well," Hermione said, perusing the small note. "Did Malfoy say anything about the flower before you stormed off?"

Harry nodded, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, he said that it was from Luna Lovegood."

Ron shifted in his seat, slapping his fist on his thigh, sneering. "Malfoy probably saw it as an opportunity to tell you about his little crush on you," he countered, inclining his head. "I knew he was a bloody poof!"

"Something is off about this note," Hermione said, glowering at Ron. "This doesn't look like Malfoy's handwriting."

"We haven't seen him ten years, Hermione!" Harry said. "There's no way his handwriting stayed the same."

"I still think something is off," she muttered, placing the note in Harry's open palm. "You have to confront him about it."

"What?" he yelled, confused.

"If what he said was true, you can't just ignore him forever!" she said. "You have to let him know you don't feel the same unless you—"

Ron gagged, cutting her off. "Like Harry would like someone like Malfoy; he'd probably fall in love with Dumbledore before he could even look at Malfoy!"

"That's disgusting, Ron!" Harry said. "I wouldn't even look at Malfoy!"

"Okay," Hermione said. "I get it; you don't like Malfoy. But, you still need to talk to him."

"Fine," he agreed, tucking the note in his pocket. "I'll confront him in a few days."

"You need to do it tomorrow, Harry!"

"And, what?" he sneered. "Make myself seem desperate?"

"Harry!" she scolded. "You have to!"

"Yeah," he said, "in a few days."

Ron smirked. "I'm coming too!" he said, crowing. "I want to see his face when you reject him!"

"No, you are not," Hermione said. "Harry will go there _alone,_ do you hear me, Ronald?"

"Blimey, Hermione!" he said. "I was kidding, right, Harry?"

"Shut up, Ronald."

"Okay, touchy much?" he said, narrowing his eyes at the wall.

"Harry," Hermione said, holding out her hand to him. "Promise me that you will talk to him."

He looked at her hand, his expression contemplative. He grabbed her hand, a small smile on his lips.

"I promise."


End file.
